The Guardian Hills Saga

by James Edwards

  The Guardian Hills Saga

  by

  James Edwards, PhD

  Copyright © 2020 James Edwards

  All rights reserved.

  Westcreek, Minnesota

  Circa 1945

  James Edwards, PhD, is a professor of psychology. He has over twenty-five years of experience in the field of mental health, including work with the First Nation. His professional interests include perception, group think, and cultural relations. Dr. Edwards makes his home in East Central Minnesota. This is his second novel.

  Like the book? Have comments or questions? Join the conversation at facebook.com/thejamesedwards or follow Dr. Edwards on Twitter @authorjamesed. You may also email him directly: authorjamesedwards@gmail.com.

  And please—please—visit our town at WestcreekMN.com.

  For Steven

  “Sleep, my baby,” she said with a smile, “sleep through the night. All will be well, all will be right.”

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. Westcreek (A Brief History)

  2. Steven

  3. Discovery in Guardian Hills

  4. Wasin (A Brief History)

  5. The Powwow

  6. The Anniversary

  7. Gloria, Dex, and a Sheriff’s Lament

  8. The Calling

  9. The Seduction

  10. Reparations

  11. On Finding a Prince

  12. The Questioning of Decoreous Blackfoot

  13. Prelude to War

  14. The War

  15. The Trial of Mayor Roland Pike

  16. Reflections of War

  17. The Final Magic Show

  18. Coda

  19. The Report

  Places Where the Guardian Hills Saga was Imagined, Written, or Edited

  Composers and Artists Who Inspired the Guardian Hills Saga,

  Other Books by James Edwards, PhD

  THE GUARDIAN HILLS SAGA

  Prologue

  July 19th, 1945, 12:35 a.m.

  The air was so hot, pine limbs drooped with sweat . . .

  In the dead of night, deep in a Northern Minnesota forest, it could be that way, and such oppressive temperatures always preceded a storm—a bad storm. In the dark western skies, lightning blinked and thunder grumbled.

  Still, four men ran amuck.

  Halfway up the northern side of a long but shallow valley, away from the sleepy little town of Westcreek, the men searched for something—something wonderful and precious and foretold in stories handed down from generation to generation. The men searched for an Indian treasure.

  Running single file atop a deer path of matted grasses and weeds, they struggled to carry a mountain of equipment. Bulging tan packs bounced atop backs, water canteens slammed into sore pelvises, heavy army-style jackets sagged under the weight of pockets full of ammunition, and shoulders ached from straps that supported large rifles. The journey was a serious one.

  Of the men, Bernie Cooper was the first in line. A widower, man of seventy, and wearing a flannel hunting cap that partially contained flyaway gray hair, his eyes darted as if expecting trouble or resistance to the thievery he was about to imbibe in. Months of planning, refining of those plans, and mock ambushes had gone into this night, so he was on edge for anything out of the ordinary. It was all a matter of where he hid, how powerful he was, and how vengeful he might be, should their mission be successful. Hurrying down the deer path, his arm outstretched and holding an almost useless lantern, he tried to assess the surroundings. Bernie was almost sure the forest was coming alive.

  Did something rustle in the brush over there? he fretted. How ‘bout near the top of that spruce tree? Maybe it’s time to turn back.

  Appearing none too happy, Bull Erickson, a hulk of a man, was the second in line. His mouth scowled, his cheeks strained under the pressure of gritted teeth, and his brows furrowed with contempt. Somewhat younger than Bernie and showcasing massive arms that popped through ripped shirt sleeves, he was growing frustrated over Bernie’s preoccupation with myths and legends.

  They’re just tales, you fool! he scolded silently. Tales for children. Now get me to my loot.

  Bernie could feel his friend’s emotional heat, and based on past events, angering the big man too much was never good. In Westcreek, Bull was hard on people. Visions appeared to the leader: of Bull yelling and screaming because a subordinate was a minute late to work at the town lumbermill, where he was a manager; of a broken car window due to an account receivable being a week overdue; and of a drunken brawl at the Westcreek Café because another patron disrespected the music of Glen Miller. Bernie knew Bull often punched first and thought later, and the only reason Bernie was afforded any type of respect was due to their shared interests: money and power. It kept the rage in check.

  Stomping his heavy boots into the soft earth, Bull accidentally bumped into Bernie. But it was a bump nonetheless, and maybe Bull would do it again, this time on purpose. This time with more force. Anything to get the group closer to their goal.

  Two meager brothers brought up the rear. “Packhorses,” as Bull once called them, they were balding identical twins with baby faces. Neither talked much, but both loved to please others. This search was a last-ditch effort to recoup losses from a failed business downtown. The twins owned a hardware store, and the place was failing miserably. Over the years, too few customers brought in too few dollars, and soon windows would be soaped up and the front door locked forever. The brothers’ wives and children had already moved back to Minneapolis, for the prospect of profit seemed so bleak. The twins would have joined them had Bull not been so demanding in regard to this mission. Each had a hard time saying no.

  Running lightly, each had an even harder time keeping up. Their thin frames strained under the mass of equipment. Both sweated profusely. Both panted loudly. And both shivered uncontrollably. Some of the shaking was due to cardiovascular distress; most was fear of the unknown. The brothers were sure they were being watched by someone or some “things.” They felt eyes peeking out from behind trees or over the many small hills that dotted the shallow valley or even from the dark clouds above.

  Are the legends true? they wondered in unison. Is the old man near? Are we truly in danger?

  CRACK! A bolt of lightning tore up the sky. CRACK-CRACK! and two more competed for vibrancy.

  Bernie suddenly stopped. At the edge of a clearing surrounded by mostly tall jack pine, he held up his lantern. “Halt!” he said with a whispered yell. “Wait! He could be anywhere. Check the area!”

  And his cohorts did. Still single file on the deer path, each physically rotated, as if robotic, studying the nearby greenery with a critical eye for anything out of the ordinary—anything human, animal, or otherwise, and the range of possibilities frightened the brothers even more. Still, from what they could see, the forest “looked” normal, albeit windswept and cold.

  “There’s nobody out here but us, you fool!” Bull snapped. “Now where’s this damn treasure?”

  Bernie reluctantly pointed ahead. “There. To the north of the Great Rock.”

  Lightning stuttered, illuminating a small abandoned mine sticking out of a hill, spindly vines dangling over the opening as if forbidding entrance. The sort-of cave was seven feet by six feet and had metal railings on the floor leading to somewhere deep inside. An ore car, rusted and missing a wheel, lay to the east flipped over on its right side.

  The mine wasn’t the centerpiece of the clearing, though. A mammoth rock, speckled with quartz, stood in the middle like an inanimate sentry daring passage. Rising from the earth, missing legs, its belly oblong and rough, the rock had one long arm extending out that pointed to the town below and a head with no eyes that still seem
ed to watch over the valley.

  Thunder rolled.

  Bull’s heart raced. “Ohhhh . . . it’s just as you told us,” he chortled with excitement, pushing Bernie aside with a veiny forearm to get a better view. “A clearing, a boulder, and an old mine—an old mine no doubt full of all the riches you promised. Let’s go!”

  “Stop!” Bernie shouted, grabbing for one of Bull’s thick shoulders. “Listen. Listen, my friends.”

  Indeed, something sounded. Amid a sudden moaning wind, the group heard an eerie hissing. The sound came from all around, hoarser than a hoard of felines and intermixed with an almost gibberish-like language, as if someone or some things were trying to communicate with the men.

  The proof Bernie dreaded felt close at hand.

  “The guardian is here,” he whispered with shivering lips. “With his creatures. Like a spider, thinks he’s got us in his web.” Bernie shook his head. “No farther. We must turn back.”

  But not everyone agreed.

  Bull bit his lip, the arteries on his neck pulsating. “It’s just some damn wild animals! We’ve traveled too far! We can’t turn back!” He pointed past the Great Rock to the mine like a father ordering his children to their rooms. “Now come on—let’s get in there!”

  “Maybe it’s not safe,” the oldest, by minutes, of the brothers mumbled timidly, taking a step back and rubbing his bald head. “Like Bernie said. Let’s go home . . . we’ll try another night.”

  Bull thought for a moment. A short moment. Then he grabbed for his rifle, cocked the hammer, and let the barrel lead forward. “There’ll be another time for you three. Go back to Westcreek and cower over fairy tales. I want my cut!”

  “No!” Bernie screamed, running after and clutching the fabric of his backpack. “I can’t let you do this. It’s almost certain death.”

  Bull tried jerking away, but to no avail. “Let me go, damn it!”

  “Listen to me as someone who knows the guardian’s ways,” Bernie pleaded. “Listen to me as a friend. It’s not worth the horror!” He gripped the backpack even tighter.

  As Bull pondered a second time, lightning wormed across the sky, kettle drum–like thunder shook the ground, and stinging winds harassed cheeks. And as if amused by the conflict playing out, the men’s shadowy companions—whether real or a figment of the men’s overactive imaginations—switched from hissing and gibberish to faint giggling.

  Bull turned stoically to Bernie, and the leader’s hand went limp.

  “Feel the storm around us and know what I say is true,” Bernie said, much slower and with a caring smile. “Feel it. There’ll be another day.”

  Palming the stock of his rifle, Bull refused to make eye contact. His breathing shallowed.

  But then he suddenly nodded his head. “Perhaps you’re right,” he answered, tight-lipped. “I’m being selfish. You know more about these matters.”

  Sighing, Bernie reached for each of the big man’s biceps and patted them gently. His eyes softened. “Good choice. I am proud of you. Believe me: you will have your riches. Just not tonight. Not with the devil so close.” Bernie turned and faced the twins. “We came as friends, we leave as friends. Now let’s head for home.”

  And yet they didn’t.

  THUMP! The butt end of Bull’s rifle connected viciously with the back of Bernie’s skull. The leader fell forward with lifeless force, his lantern crashing onto a nearby rock and exploding into fire.

  Bull spat. “The journey has just begun, ‘friend!’”

  The younger of the twins rushed to Bernie’s side. “What have you done?” he cried. Removing Bernie’s flannel hunting cap, the twin touched a large gash oozing blood. “Bernie! Bernie?” he called, hoping to wake the man from his sudden slumber. He applied direct pressure to the wound with his hand.

  Bull barely moved. Shocked by his own actions, trying to explain, he stood with quivering eyes. “He grabbed me! You both saw it! He grabbed me! Nobody touches me!”

  “He’s your best friend!” the still-standing twin rebuked apprehensively. “You don’t do that! What’s gotten into you?”

  “I had to defend myself!” Bull shouted, trying to mentally grasp for a rationale.

  The oldest twin shook his head and narrowed his eyes contemptuously. “It’s the money. Just the smell of it has changed you. Made you into a madman.”

  Bull watched the sympathy the twins paid to Bernie. He observed how the youngest twin cradled Bernie’s head, wept atop his crimson hair, and muttered a myriad of worries. The direct pressure wasn’t helping. The blood continued to flow.

  With the eye of the storm directly overhead, lightning flashed fiercely and thunder roared.

  And Bull pondered. But not for long. Giving in to a pressing want, reaching deep inside and finding his former confidence, he slowly pointed the barrel of his rifle at the oldest brother. “We’re still going into that mine. All three of us. Without Bernie . . . I’m sorry.”

  The kneeling twin’s mouth was agape. “No . . . you can’t be serious,” he whined, cradling Bernie’s head even more. “Bernie’s bleeding bad! He needs a doctor!”

  “All in due time,” Bull assured, “but for now we have a treasure to find. And I need your help hauling it out.”

  The older brother watched with intense disquiet.

  For what seemed like many minutes, only the busy winds spoke.

  “The longer we stall,” Bull said, “the longer Bernie hurts.” Then he snorted with impatience and flexed his pectorals. “Once we get what we’re looking for, I’ll carry Bernie back to town. You’ll see. Best friend carrying best friend. Knee deep in riches, Westcreek will welcome us home as heroes. Our town will be saved. All will be forgotten. All will be forgiven. I’m doing this for everyone.”

  “No,” the kneeling twin pouted, now rocking Bernie in his lap. “No, I won’t leave him.”

  Bull’s cheeks turned dark red. Gnashing his teeth hard, he let off a warning shot into the tumultuous sky. “God damn it, I’m not gonna tell you again! Get up, or Bernie won’t be the only one carried out!”

  Shaking, sensing the futility of further words or inaction, the older brother moved carefully forward, bent down, and pulled his brother up by the armpits, never losing sight of Bull’s eyes—eyes that appeared ever more menacing with each lightning burst. “Do as he says,” he whispered. “We have no choice. Bull’s in control now. Let God sort it out.”

  “He’ll die,” the younger lamented, gently laying Bernie’s skull back down to the ground face-first, replacing his hunting cap as if it might somehow bring the unconscious man comfort. “He’ll die out here alone.”

  “Let’s not join him…”

  The two huddled together like mice caught in the mighty gaze of a bear—a bear with a gun, and the newly self-appointed leader kept a tight bead on each of their movements as they walked as a group—first the twins, then Bull—up the clearing, past the Great Rock, and to the mine apron. The eye of the storm refused to blink. The strong winds fragmented, thrusting at times like pockets of energy at—and through—the party. Mini tornadoes sprouted up from the dirt and danced sarcastically. Footing became tricky. Falling was common. And the eerie hissing and gibberish returned—this time in stereo—around the clearing, within bushes, near treetops, and sometimes directly behind the Great Rock, always out of sight as if the “creatures” were playing an impish game of hide-and-seek. But still Bull and the twins pressed onward.

  Meanwhile, Bernie awoke.

  Gasping, bouncing his head off the cold earth like a baby lacking the neck muscles to sit up, he gained consciousness but struggled with orientation. His vision was fuzzy, his hearing dull, and his skin cold and itchy.

  “Where am I?” Bernie agonized aloud, squinting at the storm above. “How did I get here?” Sitting up slightly, he reached for his bloody noggin and gasped. “How did this happen? “Who… could have done this?”

  Memories flickered in his head. Our mission. The clearing. Danger. Eyes bulging and mouth f
orming a perfect O, he whimpered inside his head, Has the guardian slayed me? Have I fallen under one of his spells? Where are Bull and the brothers?

  “Help!” he screamed. “Help! Anyone, please!”

  Like a painted turtle on uneven ground, Bernie rotated his seated body 180 degrees to get a better view of his predicament, grasping his head to will away the pounding ache. He tried to remember more: We packed our gear. Checked our guns. Ran through the forest. Turned back . . . and then what?

  Thunder tried mumbling the answer.

  Bernie thought again: We packed our gear. Checked our guns. Ran through this forest. And then . . .

  Through the drops of rain now falling in the clearing, as if washing away Bernie’s fogginess, Bernie gazed past the rock and saw his friends about to enter the mine.

  “And then I was attacked,” he whispered with sorrow, his body sagging. “Not by any guardian of the hills. But by Bull.” The pain in his head fell to his heart. And the twins . . . see how all three search for a treasure I told them of. A treasure . . . I readied them for. A treasure I wanted to share with them. But they . . . have betrayed me.

  Wrestling in his mind with the turn of events, feeling again for his blood-soaked hunting cap with a shaky hand, the one-time leader lay prone and sobbed, allowing his forehead to rub against the hard earth.

  But emotions would change.

  Lifting his chin once again, staring with suddenly sinister eyes, Bernie moved his hand to a coat pocket. With all his strength, he retrieved a small silver handgun with mother-of-pearl grips and, using the ground to steady his quivering hand, pointed it forward.

  “Oh, my friends,” he said to no one, “you’ll find more on this night than a vault of wealth. You’ll find tragedy.” He sought a higher power. “Dear father, who art in heaven, show me the light. Show me the light so that my aim may be true. Brotherhood has hit a bog, one where trust dare not tread.” Bernie squinted his eyes and lined up the sights, gurgling as blood from his head injury flowed into his mouth and throat.